


King Lear

by LadyVincira



Category: BioShock, BioShock Infinite
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-15
Updated: 2013-07-15
Packaged: 2017-12-20 06:09:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/883840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyVincira/pseuds/LadyVincira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Description: Rosalind wakes in a cold, damp cell…and then the interrogation begins.<br/>Word Count: 2927<br/>Warnings: Being really anal just in case here, though it’s pretty tame for me, so…angst, suggested torture, burning, mental turmoil, malnourishment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	King Lear

The first impression was the scent. Something dank in the air, murky and stale, trapped for an indeterminable amount of time before she awoke. The scent hit her before she even opened her eyes - though open them she did, bleary and half-way covered by a curtain of her own red hair. The place was unfamiliar, and that did not strike her as hard as perhaps it might have. They had been to many unfamiliar places. They were in as many unfamiliar places, all at once, after all - in them now as they would be, as they had been before. Semantics. Nothing was truly new, was it?

Still, something cold curled against her spine as she sat up on the creaky cot, slender fingers trembling lightly along the mattress until she laid them still in her lap. The doubt scarcely had time to fester in her gut before she noticed just how cold she really was - shaking herself through the haze, she became aware of her attire. Her skirt, her coat, her vest…all were gone, replaced by a flimsy medical gown. Her wrists and forearms were bandaged - had she been drugged?

Alarm started to rise within her chest - as awareness returned, so did a sense of wrong. Unfamiliar, unfamiliar…the room was so very unfamiliar. She could not remember it, either in her past or in her future…she did not know it in any way, and that was…wrong. A little panic started to sink in, widening her light eyes - the most alarming thing about the situation was swiftly dawning on her.

She was alone.

"Robert?" Her voice came out hoarse and rasping - she coughed, licking chapped lips. How long had she been out? “Brother, where are you?" The floor was freezing cold and damp when she stood, staggering a step or two barefoot on the decrepit tile. She had to keep a grip. She had to gather her wits about her, get the information. It had been some time since they had been separated for any length of time, but flying into a fit would scarcely aid the situation. No, she needed to calm herself down and get a good look at what was happening. That was the only way she was going to find where her brother had gone. She needed the facts.

Drawing a steadying breath, she turned slowly on the spot, ignoring as best she could the aching in her legs and head. The room was a cell of some kind, that much was easy to see. It was plain, save for the cot she had been lying on, a little chair off to one side against a wall, and the fact that the door was some sort of hatch. Padding over to it, she pressed against it - locked. No windows, the only exit was locked; she was being imprisoned in here. Briefly, she reeled at the thought that Robert must be somewhere in another cell, just like this one…but she shook herself. She had to THINK.

Her skin crawled with a chill as her pacing took her right through a puddle, eyes turning to the walls, to the ceiling - there had to be a way out. If she could make a city fly, then dammit, she could get out of a locked room. The walls were covered in a plain, peeling wallpaper, covered in water stains; where the paper had peeled away, riveted, rusting metal peeked out from behind. The ceiling was similarly plain, gray and criss-crossed with piping. The pipes were leaking, slowly but steadily, leaving the icy pools on the tile below. Old, perhaps, or weathered, but the room was altogether secure. That only left the lock, and trying to break it open with wits and…no tools.

Gaining footing, she moved to the cot, aiming to tear at it, at the bolts, at something she could use to somehow pick at the lock. If she was being held captive, it was a fair bet someone would be in to interrogate her. Likely about the Lutece Field, about them, about Columbia. She could hold her own when someone put the proverbial screws to her, but with Robert potentially on the line, she wasn’t willing to risk it. Her fingers trembled as she picked at the bedframe, prying at the screws, kneeling there on the floor with the dampness soaking into the medical gown -

Until the door clicked, and she looked up with a start, hands hanging in mid-air. An unfamiliar woman pushed her way into the cell, a clipboard under her arm, and locked the door before even regarding that were was anyone else in the room. A vague, exhausted smile crossed her lips (careworn - was this really the face of an interrogator?), and she pulled the chair nearer the cot, seating herself in it in a businesslike fashion. She was dressed in grays and blacks, cropped dark hair swept back and away from her face as best as it could be - professional, if ragged on the edges.

"Hello, Miss Lutece," she began, not even seeming to notice or care that the woman was on the floor, “Why don’t you make this easy and take a seat?" Pursing her lips, Rosalind pulled herself up, sitting on the cot with her head held high. This other woman looked nice, but looks could be deceiving…she WAS being held prisoner here, and this woman wanted something out of her. Rosalind wanted exactly one thing, and she opted to make it plain from the start. She didn’t much believe in beating around the bush.

"Where is my brother?" The words were still raspy, and the other woman visibly cringed. Guilt, perhaps, was needling her - she didn’t seem the type to be the captor, more one working for the captor. Perhaps her better judgement could be appealed to? Or at the very least, her sympathy. She seemed to have plenty of that when she had chosen her answer.

"In time, Miss Lutece. I’m sorry for being less than forthcoming. I just need to ask you some questions, and then you can ask yours. Is that all right?"

A beat. It would be better if things were more direct - but best to work out what was desired before flying off the handle. Reining in her temper behind a cool, stern mask, she lifted her chin a little further and gave a curt nod. The other woman gave a little sigh - relief? - consulting her notes.

"Thank you. Now…first things first. How are you feeling?"

"I’m wearing next to nothing, my head and limbs ache, I do not know how long I have been unconscious, and I do not know where my brother is. Kindly do not tarry about with useless chitchat - it will only waste both of our time. Next. Question." The words tumbled out in an icy stream, dry as a bone and accompanied by a stare to match. The interrogator cringed, jotted something down, and tried again.

"All right. Tell me about Columbia."

The question that Rosalind knew was coming - but she wasn’t going to make it too easy. Her pride wouldn’t allow it. “What about it? Be more specific, if you would."

A long sigh escaped the woman, and she actually took a moment to collect herself from the exasperation. Perhaps a flicker of pleasure registered with Rosalind at that - but no time to bask. Task at hand.

"Very well. Where is Columbia?"

"What is today’s date?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Today’s date. What is it?"

"…It’s May eighth. Why?" An eyebrow quirked - a scribble of pen on notepad. Good. Best to answer her questions, but keep the woman on the ropes. Predictability implied uselessness, in a case like this, and she didn’t want to know what would happen to her if she were deemed useless.

"If it’s May eighth, Columbia will be somewhere above…California." Rosalind lifted her chin, eyes flicking briefly upward to the water-stained ceiling as she tried to recall the schedule from memory. “Yes, should be California, unless winds have been less than cooperative."

The woman with the clipboard frowned. 

"Above California? How can it be above? Do you mean…floating?" The tone of voice she used suggested that she had heard this before - of course, likely she knew of Columbia and was playing dumb to fish for information. Rosalind kept her temper at bay, head held high as she answered.

"No. Not floating. It’s not a boat. Refusing to fall is a more apt description."

"And…how is this…refusal to fall achieved?"

Here it was. They weren’t going to get more than a brief explanation from her - not that they could manage the complexities of her work anyhow. If she gave them too much, they might deem her - or worse, Robert - useless afterward. If she gave them too little, they might prolong the entrapment and even worsen their treatment.

She had to strike a balance.

"Far too technical for me to fully explain to you, but in short - I worked out a way to suspend an atom. From there, I extended the concept to suspend a city. My research was funded to do so."

"Funded? By whom?"

No sense in being cavalier in this case. If she knew of Columbia, finding this answer herself would be easy enough. Curious that she was asking, but Rosalind opted to play along a bit more.

"Zachary Comstock. Someone with a vested interest in…privacy."

"…What year is this?"

"The year we are in now, or the year I predominantly existed in last?"

"…How about both?"

"Hm. Well, the year I last had the most presence in was 1912, I do believe. I could not tell you what year we are in - I expect you’d know, so all you need to know from me is that I’m uncertain."

"Why are you uncertain?"

"Because I exist in more than one time at once. This is just another jump - which is precisely why I must get back to my brother before we jump again."

Another cringe from the interrogator. That was beginning to seem a little curious - it was hardly the expected reaction for what she was saying. Frustration, perhaps, would be more appropriate. Or even pleasure, contentment in getting answers. A cringe suggested….

"Am I making you uncomfortable?" The woman blinked up from her notes, brown eyes locking with icy ones. 

"Why do you say that?"

"You’re asking questions, but you’re wincing when I answer you. You’re not much of an interrogator, if I had to guess."

The woman before Rosalind drew a deep breath, letting it out in a sigh. Resignation. Perhaps she was going to give up? “Miss Lutece," she nearly groaned, “I’m not an interrogator." Her eyes were fixed against Rosalind’s, big and gray and sad. Everything here felt gray. It was becoming unbearable.

"Then what are you? I am being kept prisoner, isolated from my brother, and presumably drugged. I’m not stupid." The words flew sharp and swift from Rosalind’s lips, propelled by the energy her temper provided.

"No, you’re…you’re really not stupid. You’re wildly intelligent, extremely inventive - that’s why all of this is such a shame. You’re never going to improve if you don’t stop fighting me."

"Improve?" The word felt strange on her lips. Her hand clenched, chin lifting even higher. “I am answering your questions. It’s time you answered some of mine. Where is Robert?"

The woman scrubbed a hand back through her dark hair, appearing to gauge her words before speaking in a slow, steady, well-measured tone. Practiced.

"Rosalind - I’m sorry, but you…aren’t going to be seeing Robert again."

The words hit like an ice-cold wave, chilling her to deep within. She clenched her fists in an effort to control her temper, but she could not hide the tremor that rose in her voice.

"Impossible. You cannot keep us seperated forever, and he can’t possibly be dead. But if you’ve hurt him-"

"You will not see him again," the woman breathed, rubbing her temple but keeping her gray eyes on Rosalind, “Because you can’t. Please, Miss Lutece, try to remember. I really don’t want to have to sedate you again."

"What are you talking about?" The tile floor was ice-cold under Rosalind’s feet as she pushed herself up, ignoring the dizziness that clouded her vision. She shivered, but she could feel heat welling up in her hands under the force she was exerting clenching them. “Where is Robert?"

"Try to remember, please. Tell me. We were doing so well. Tell me why you can’t see Robert. Why?"

The question needled Rosalind, infuriated her - she pulled her arm back, winding up to strike at the unfamiliar woman…and then suddenly - heat. Looking back at her fist, she was met with the sight of her hand engulfed in flames, the flesh charring and cracking as it cooked and seared.

Her screams filled the cell as she dropped to the ground, desperately dragging the hand through a deep puddle of icy saltwater. What did they do to her? Had they given her a Vigor while she was under? No, that didn’t ring true. Rosalind’s head started to pound again, and she looked up to the woman from her position on the floor, searching for answers, for memories, for anything at all to hang on to. She…was familiar, now that she really thought about it. This place was…at least a little familiar as well. The familiarity felt wrong - it didn’t fit. She could feel something within her mind grinding, as if something had been thrown in the cogs.

But the woman just remained where she was sitting, fingers tight around the edges of her clipboard, a baleful, apologetic look on her rounded face.

"Rosalind - please. You’re going to hurt yourself again. Just stop a moment and try to answer me. You’re a brilliant woman - you can do this. Why can’t you see Robert?"

The floor felt like it was crumbling out from under her. Head dipping down to look at her hand, she could see that all traces of the flames were already gone…but the ripples in the puddle had subsided enough in the dim light for her to catch sight of her own reflection. Her face was gaunt, malnourished for some indeterminable amount of time; her hair was hanging in matted chunks against too-pale skin, threatening to cover sunken, dark-rimmed eyes. Her freckles were nigh-nonexistant - as if her skin hadn’t seen the sun in years. That was impossible, unless….

"…No," she breathed, pupils tightening as she watched her own face grow frightened. This couldn’t be possible, but it was the only thing that made any sense. She couldn’t remember this place, past or present, but she COULD remember this place - just not in the context of the life she knew. It was like a puzzle piece that didn’t fit with the puzzle she THOUGHT she was doing - which, logically, could only mean that she was doing a different puzzle.

"Please listen to me. I’m not your interrogator, Rosalind, you know that. I’m your therapist."

This wasn’t the life she knew.

The realization came crashing in on her like a sickening wave - Rosalind curled in on herself, hands clasped over her ears as her mind struggled to compensate for the dichotomy. Impossible, impossible - but it was the only possibility. The paradox dragged claws through her head, and she tucked her knees up to hide her face in, trying desperately to keep the beast at bay. She could feel a soft hand on her shoulder, hear a voice calling to her, but she kept it at length - this was all a dream, wasn’t it? It was all a dream and Robert was going to wake her any moment now. She bit her lip hard and waited, pleaded - Robert, Robert, please wake me up!

And then he did.

The woman shook her shoulder, gently, keeping her voice steady and soft as she spoke. “Rosalind. Rosalind, please, calm down…can you hear me? Rosalind, can you hear me?" No response. Drawing a deep breath and then letting it out in a sigh, the psychiatrist withdrew her hand from Rosalind’s shoulder, knowing full well that the battle had been lost. She spoke again, this time with a note of resignation.

"…Robert? Are you there?"

Light eyes suddenly flicked up through matted ginger hair, a voice forced an octave below its usual register escaping bleeding lips.

"What have you done to Rosalind? Where is my sister?"

—-

"Today’s session went poorly. Miss Lutece kept continuity for three days this time before sliding back into her delusions again. She took the truth badly this time around. She moved to strike me, and if she hadn’t been surprised by her Incinerate plasmid kicking in, she would have been too delicate for me to fight back against. The reality was too much for her - the alternate persona, Robert, asserted himself after she tried to reconcile the truth against her delicately crafted memories. He cares about her…as fiercely as she cares about him. The first words I ever hear out of either of them - always ‘where is my brother’ or ‘where is my sister.’

It’s startling, the detail she - they -recall this alternate life with. I even factor into it, however minutely. In her world, she is a genius. One who can make a city fly and who is neither alive nor dead. She doesn’t even know what a plasmid is, though she has mentioned disdain for a similar type of concoction - Vigors, she calls them.

It makes sense, that she would hate something so similar to the substance that tore her mind apart. Besides…if I thought there was a reality beyond this one….

I would want to escape this world, too." 

—Voxophone, “Sessions with ‘Madame’ Lutece," Dr. Constance Field

**Author's Note:**

> IT IS FINALLY DONE, AND I CAN FINALLY UNVEIL MY AU. I know it's a little out there, but I do hope it's easy enough to follow. Please tell me what you think, I’m a little nervous to release my first finished fic into the fandom, and it’s been so stop-and go working on it that I worry about the tone, but I NEED TO JUST PUT IT OUT THERE. I hope you guys like it! This AU has become my baby.
> 
> Let me know if you want to hear more about Dr. Field and her patients!


End file.
